And with every stroke of the seconds there was a faint,
metallic clangor in the clock--a falter like that which comes in the
voice of a very old man. And the sound of this clock took possession of
every silence until it seemed like the voice of a doomsman counting off
the seconds. Ay, everyone in the room, again and again, took up the tale
of those seconds and would count them slowly--fifty, fifty-one,
fifty-two, fifty-three--and on and on, waiting for the next speech, or
for the next popping of the wood upon the hearth, or for the next wail
of the wind that would break upon the deadly expectancy of that count.
And while they counted each looked straight before him with wide and
widening eyes.
Into one of these pauses the voice of Buck Daniels broke at length; and
it was a cheerless and lonely voice in that large room, in the dull
darkness, and the duller lights.
"D'you remember Shorty Martin, Kate?"
"I remember him."
He turned in his chair and hitched it a little closer to her until he
could make put her face, dimly, among the shadows. The flames jumped on
the hearth, and he saw a picture that knocked at his heart.
"The little bow-legged feller, I mean."
"Yes, I remember him very well."
Once more the flames sputtered and he saw how she looked wistfully
before her and above. She had never seemed so lovely to Buck Daniels.
She was pale, indeed, but there was no ugly pinching of her face, and if
there were shadows beneath her eyes, they only served to make her eyes
seem marvelously large and bright.
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